


Puddles

by Tilion



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Chronological setting is not mentioned, Existentialism, Fake Episode, M/M, Nonsense, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, is cecilos canon yet? you guess, so uhhhhh just imagine it whenever you like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:22:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28399911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tilion/pseuds/Tilion
Summary: "Do not look into puddles.You know what will happen if you do."Or: a typical day in Night Vale, featuring an orange peel, the chemicals of emotion, and a guest appearance from Cecil's tendency toward existential dread. Among other things.
Relationships: Carlos/Cecil Palmer
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Puddles

An object at rest will remain at rest. An object in motion will remain in motion. A person who has not yet succumbed to the horrors of existential dread will not succumb to the horrors of existential dread . . . until acted upon by an outside force.

Welcome . . . to Night Vale.

[INTRO MUSIC]

The Sheriff's Secret Police have an important public service announcement to share. According to the message I hold in my hands, written in what appears to be blood on the inside of an orange peel that is rapidly fading from existence as I speak, Night Vale citizens are discouraged and in fact prohibited from looking into puddles, from 2:03 p.m. today to the foreseeable future.

Do not look into puddles.

You know what will happen if you do.

In other news, John Peters—you know, the farmer—phoned in earlier to inform me that his crop of invisible corn is suffering from an invisible plague, which appears to stem from an invisible fungus. Around 70% of his corn has withered away as a result of his blight. 

Whether or not this invisible plague is related at all to the current puddle situation is, as yet, unknown.

Ah. I have just been informed by what I assume is the Sheriff's Secret Police, through a series of rapid flashes of binary code behind my eyelids, that Night Vale citizens should not only avoid puddles, but also avoid mentioning them at all.

Night Vale citizens who interact with, speak about, think about, or otherwise acknowledge . . . the thing I was speaking of at all will NOT be taken for reeducation, but this is only because it is not likely there will be anything left of them to be taken to reeducation.

Noted.

Anyway, here is this week's schedule:

On Monday, Big Rico's, for no apparent reason, will be having a special event. Buy one slice of pizza, get one for the price of two more! Make sure to head on over and make the most of it. I know I will.

On Tuesday, nothing will happen. 

Nothing.

We will wake up on Wednesday totally unaware of any events that happened, or did not happen, the day before. This is no cause for alarm.

Thursday will be gloomy. It will not tell you why it is gloomy, but it will accept a blanket or a warm hug.

On Friday, you will be gripped by an unprecedented and unexplainable feeling of utter dread.

On Saturday, City Council has generously decided to sponsor an event during which all Night Vale streets will be covered with glitter.

On Sunday, Night Vale citizens are encouraged to participate in our new weekly Townwide Glitter Cleanup. We will never get all of it.

Never.

And now, a word from our sponsor:

Look around.

Are you in a room? A park, perhaps? Wherever you are, you are sure to catch a glimpse of yourself somewhere. Well, not yourself, per se, but a reflection of yourself. Maybe in a mirror, or a blank television screen, or a [̨̰̻͖̟̣̺̝̝̍̇̽̓Ŗ̝̬̜͈͑̾E̞̭̦̓̊̃̀D̑̑ͮ̏͏̲̟͔͖͖̮̟͕A̙͈̯̼̟ͯͨ̾̕ͅͅC̷̖̥͙̍T̈͂҉̗̣̺̠̗͙̩͎E̻̝̎͜D̨̙͕̯͊ͮ]̫̰̞̦̤ͯ͟

Regardless of where you are looking, you can never truly see yourself. What you see is a result of photons bouncing off a reflective surface. It’s just refracted light.

Then again, all color we perceive is an effect of light reflected off certain surfaces. It’s all photons. It’s all light.

Remember that next time you look in the mirror and see a face over your shoulder, but you turn around and nothing is there.

Remember: it’s all light. It’s all light.

This message has been brought to you by Burger King.

Hey, kids and parents! It's time for our Children's Fun Fact Science Corner. Today's segment is inspired by—you guessed it—our very own Carlos the Scientist. 

[SIGH]

Perfect, beautiful Carlos. You know, listeners, I've thought about it a lot, and I think that it's possible to observe somebody's physical beauty regardless of whether or not you are actually seeing them. For example, a voice over the phone. I was talking to Carlos over the phone the other day—have I mentioned how I love his gorgeous caramel voice, even distorted by distance and poor cellular connection?—and although I was not in his physical presence, a combination of his voice and the memory of his beauty pervaded in my mind.

I think that when you love someone, their beauty to you transcends what is visual and becomes something else. 

Beauty is a fun word. Beauty. Beauuuuuty. Carlos. Carlooooos. 

...

Oh, right. So, I was talking to Carlos over the phone, and he mentioned how all emotions are really just chemicals in our brains.  Happiness. Sadness. Fury. Loneliness.

Love is caused by chemicals. Fear is caused by chemicals. All you have ever felt and all you will ever feel is caused by chemicals.

You are chemicals. You are real.

Aren’t you?

Pay very, very close attention, or you may not be for long.

This has been our Children's Fun Fact Science Corner.

This just in, listeners! Apparently, a citizen of Night Vale has defied the Sheriff's Secret Police and ignored my advice, choosing to gaze into the depths of a . . . of the thing you surely remember my telling you not to interact with, speak about, think about, or otherwise acknowledge.

Our condolences to his friends and family.

It's time for traffic!

Some roads are fast. Some roads are slow. Some roads creep along at an indeterminate pace steady enough that the cars honking and speeding along it do not realize that the asphalt below them is actually moving, too. Where is it taking them?

What does it want?

Somewhere, at some point in time, on the face of this planet, there is a road that is perfectly still. The cars do not move. The drivers do not move. The passengers sit in utter statuesque silence.

They are so still that they could be dead.

Could they be dead?

If I were to stop speaking into my mic and sit perfectly, perfectly still, like the travelers on this lonely somewhere road, could _I_ be dead?

If I were a corpse, would I know?

Of course I wouldn’t. I would be dead. And dead people don’t know anything. Remember that next time you try to reanimate Robert Hooke to help you with your biology exam. And try not to cuss him out when he insults your Isaac Newton poster.

That did _not_ end well.

This has been: traffic.

Listeners, the orange peel from earlier that held a message in blood from the Sheriff's Secret Police appears to be phasing back into existence! It appears to bear a new message. As I speak, I am attempting to decipher it. This could be important. This could determine whether or not the small, friendly desert community in which we all reside continues to exist, insofar as we consider the word 'existence,' on this cold and lonely world in this cold and lonely universe!

Oh—wait, it's gone.

Oh, well.

This just in: I am receiving a string of texts on my phone. I thought it was Carlos at first, and because, as you know, I feel the professional need to keep my personal life off the air, I was going to ignore it. But now I see that it's actually the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in My Home, who I did not realize had this number, and I am unsure exactly _how_ I know it is her, only that I am entirely and intrinsically certain.

Ahem.

Messages read:

You.

Yes, you.

You shouldn't be afraid of the night. I was once afraid of the night, when I was small, but I stopped. I decided that the things in the night were my friends, my servants, and would not harm me.

I was wrong. I was wrong. I was right.

Darkness is an absence and therefore cannot truly exist in the manner we consider existence. Darkness is behind you.

Do not look behind you.

Messages end. 

Thank you, Faceless Old Woman. I'm sure my listeners always appreciate a bit of advice. I sure do.

Ah! The orange peel from the Sheriff's Secret Police is flickering back into existence! I can now vaguely make out the words.

... Ah. Hmm. I see.

Listeners, the Sheriff's Secret Police _strongly_ suggest, in fact _mandate_ that you remain inside, and remain calm.

If you are outside at the moment, do not, whatever you do, look down. Looking down may cause you to come into contact with a [̨̰̻͖̟̣̺̝̝̍̇̽̓Ŗ̝̬̜͈͑̾E̞̭̦̓̊̃̀D̑̑ͮ̏͏̲̟͔͖͖̮̟͕A̙͈̯̼̟ͯͨ̾̕ͅͅC̷̖̥͙̍T̈͂҉̗̣̺̠̗͙̩͎E̻̝̎͜D̨̙͕̯͊ͮ]̫̰̞̦̤ͯ͟.

I am unfolding the rest of the orange peel, which is much longer than the average orange peel would logically be, as new words appear in what still appears to be blood. 

Ahem.

It appears that upon eye contact, citizen's reflections have begun to crawl out of [̨̰̻͖̟̣̺̝̝̍̇̽̓Ŗ̝̬̜͈͑̾E̞̭̦̓̊̃̀D̑̑ͮ̏͏̲̟͔͖͖̮̟͕A̙͈̯̼̟ͯͨ̾̕ͅͅC̷̖̥͙̍T̈͂҉̗̣̺̠̗͙̩͎E̻̝̎͜D̨̙͕̯͊ͮ]̫̰̞̦̤ͯ͟s, inky black and dripping with slime that smells faintly of boiled fish, and dragging them down into the [̨̰̻͖̟̣̺̝̝̍̇̽̓Ŗ̝̬̜͈͑̾E̞̭̦̓̊̃̀D̑̑ͮ̏͏̲̟͔͖͖̮̟͕A̙͈̯̼̟ͯͨ̾̕ͅͅC̷̖̥͙̍T̈͂҉̗̣̺̠̗͙̩͎E̻̝̎͜D̨̙͕̯͊ͮ]̫̰̞̦̤ͯ͟. This is a problem because we do not know where the [̨̰̻͖̟̣̺̝̝̍̇̽̓Ŗ̝̬̜͈͑̾E̞̭̦̓̊̃̀D̑̑ͮ̏͏̲̟͔͖͖̮̟͕A̙͈̯̼̟ͯͨ̾̕ͅͅC̷̖̥͙̍T̈͂҉̗̣̺̠̗͙̩͎E̻̝̎͜D̨̙͕̯͊ͮ]̫̰̞̦̤ͯ͟.s are coming from. We are a desert community and it does not rain.

If you have any information about the [̨̰̻͖̟̣̺̝̝̍̇̽̓Ŗ̝̬̜͈͑̾E̞̭̦̓̊̃̀D̑̑ͮ̏͏̲̟͔͖͖̮̟͕A̙͈̯̼̟ͯͨ̾̕ͅͅC̷̖̥͙̍T̈͂҉̗̣̺̠̗͙̩͎E̻̝̎͜D̨̙͕̯͊ͮ]̫̰̞̦̤ͯ͟s or the Night Vale citizens who have been lost to them, please report it to the City Council, or just shout "POLICE" really loudly. Or really quietly. They'll hear you. They always do.

[PAUSE]

[CRACKLE]

I apologize for the delay. Intern Amaya was waving at me through the glass of my booth. At first I just waved back, thinking nothing of it, but then I noticed that her mouth was open as though she was screaming, and she was gesturing frantically across the room.

It seems that a [̨̰̻͖̟̣̺̝̝̍̇̽̓Ŗ̝̬̜͈͑̾E̞̭̦̓̊̃̀D̑̑ͮ̏͏̲̟͔͖͖̮̟͕A̙͈̯̼̟ͯͨ̾̕ͅͅC̷̖̥͙̍T̈͂҉̗̣̺̠̗͙̩͎E̻̝̎͜D̨̙͕̯͊ͮ]̫̰̞̦̤ͯ͟ has appeared right here, in the middle of Night Vale Community Radio Station. I am going to lock the door of my recording booth and hide under my desk.

It's always worked in the past.

Once again, listeners, stay inside, and stay calm. Remember, everything will be fine. After all, it doesn't rain in the desert, and [̨̰̻͖̟̣̺̝̝̍̇̽̓Ŗ̝̬̜͈͑̾E̞̭̦̓̊̃̀D̑̑ͮ̏͏̲̟͔͖͖̮̟͕A̙͈̯̼̟ͯͨ̾̕ͅͅC̷̖̥͙̍T̈͂҉̗̣̺̠̗͙̩͎E̻̝̎͜D̨̙͕̯͊ͮ]̫̰̞̦̤ͯ͟s come from rain.

We will be fine, the Sheriff's Secret Police assure you.

We will be fine.

And now, the weather.

[[THE WEATHER](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gW4NdDTg07Y)]

Well. The Sheriff's Secret Police would like me to announce that the danger, for now, has passed, or at least this specific danger on this specific day. Apparently, puddles appeared all over Night Vale this morning, despite the notable lack of rain because we are in a desert, and when in contact with human perception, they opened gaping holes in the fabric of our reality, allowing the mysterious inhabitants of what appeared to be a mirror dimension to drag poor, unassuming Night Vale citizens through the portals and into their own nightmarish realm of which we know nothing, and can know nothing, for the portals have been sealed, and so has their fate.

Our condolences.

John Peters—you know, the farmer?—reports that his invisible crop of corn has been restored to perfect health. Perhaps the mysterious invisible fungus that affected it was caused by the strange puddle portals. Or maybe the portals were caused by the fungus. He's not really sure, and neither am I. We may never prove it one way or another.

I, for one, am currently wondering whether the Night Vale citizens tragically lost to the puddles technically still exist. If Carlos were on air, he'd say something smart and sciencey, like how matter can be neither created nor destroyed. 

[SIGH].

Carlos is so clever.

Anyways, if we take hypothetical Carlos's hypothetical statement as fact—which, of course, one should never do, lest the Sheriff's Secret Police take us to reeducation for believing anything at all—then I guess they DO still exist, just not in this reality. A comforting thought, that those who have left us, one way or another, can't ever really be destroyed. 

The atoms that make up our bodies cannot be destroyed, either. They existed long before they formed together to create molecules and cells and tissue and muscles and bone. These atoms, and by extension us, have existed and will exist for as long as the rest of the universe.

We can’t escape existence. By definition, that makes it a prison.

It’s a beautiful one, perhaps.

But is a beautiful prison still a prison? Can you be trapped within something you do not desire to leave?

None of these questions can be answered in a manner satisfactory to the mind that wanders too much for sweet sanity, and too little for the comfort of insanity.

Good night, Night Vale.

Good night.


End file.
